


The Museum Mission

by hellkitty



Category: The Tick (TV 2017)
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 16:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12511300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: For Spook-Me.I somehow came out of this shipping Dot/Overkill. I think I missed the point of...everything.





	The Museum Mission

**Author's Note:**

> [ here's the song because it's too perfect not to mention](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47y5bo8wtqM&ab_channel=ScandalVEVO)

Overkill was going to make it official. This was the worst, the absolute worst, day of his fucking life: the day he actually called to ask. The Tick. For help. He couldn’t even get those ideas strung together in a sentence in his mind. Fuck.

“Pick up pick up pick up, you asshole,” he muttered at the comm line in his helmet. And then regretted it, as footsteps--heavy enough to shake the ground, and rattle the vase in the display case he was trying to hide behind--stopped and then paced, warily into the room.

***

“Arthur!” the Tick boomed. “This dip is delicious!”

Arthur winced, first at the Tick, who seemed to have no concept of an ‘indoor voice’, like, at all, and second at his mother, who was beaming at the compliment to her lemon-jello tomato soup vegetable dip.

“I could give you the recipe.” His mother practically glowed.

“Uh, Mom,” Dot interrupted, in her role as the family Voice of Sanity, “I don’t think the Tick can cook.” Or do much of anything else, honestly, that sounded normal. And

Arthur couldn’t really disagree.

“Oh, well, then I’ll just give it to Arthur. He can make it.”

Dot and Arthur exchanged pained glances over the table, as the Tick said, “Great!”

Arthur was saved from the next agonizing familial embarrassment by his phone ringing. He held it up, relief naked on his face. “I, uh, gotta take this!” And in the other room, where, hopefully, there was just slightly less crazy happening.

“Arthur!”

Arthur jump-flinched (it’s an advanced move), having to juggle the phone to catch it after it slipped from his hand. “O-Overkill?” One day, his voice wouldn’t crack like that, saying his name.

“Natural History Museum. Now.”

Well, that was less yelly than before. And while Arthur wasn’t exactly a Rhodes Scholar in Conversational Skills, something seemed to be missing from this conversation. No, not manners--he knew better than to expect those from Overkill--but, you know, context. “You want me to go to the museum?”

“Yes. Yes, dammit!”

Most people said ‘yes, please’ but, well, Overkill. It didn’t seem like a good idea to point that out. “Right now? Because I’m, uh, kinda busy?” Because he could hear the clear sounds of Mom entering the dining room, carrying the oven-roasted chicken in with a flourish. Busy, and hungry.

“Now!” Overkill yelled, and there was a burst of sound through the line that sounded like something crashing. Or exploding. Explashing. It sounded painful. “And bring your blue freak!”

Oh. That was even more worrying than whatever that noise had been. Overkill, asking for the Tick. “O-okay,” Arthur replied, but the line had already gone ominously dead.

He took a moment to pull himself together, before stepping back into the dining room. “Sorry, Mom, Walter. I gotta go.”

Dot got That Look, the one he dreaded the most, but said nothing. Yet.

“Oh, no, honey, we’re just serving dinner now!” his mother said.

“CHICKEN!” The Tick announced. “America’s tastiest flightless birds!”

“Yeah, uh, Tick, you have to come, too.”

“Is it your friend Paloma?” Walter said. “She seemed nice.”

“Uh, yeah, It’s, it’s Paloma. And she, uh.” He was absolutely the worst at coming up with lies, but for good or ill, his family was even worse at discovering them. “Her car broke down.”

“Oh! And you’re the handsome young man she called on for rescue.” His mother gave a really unsettling waggle of her eyebrows.

“Nothing like that, mom.” First off, because ‘Paloma’ was Miss Lint, who zapped him tingly just about every time he saw her, and it wasn’t the good kind of tingly, and second, wait, did he need a second reason?!

“A damsel!” The Tick bolted up from his chair. “In distress, even.”

Thank god the Tick didn’t remember--or maybe hadn’t figured it out in the first place--that Paloma was Miss Lint. “Sorry, mom,” Arthur said. With complete honesty. If there was a thing he’d rather NOT be doing tonight, it was rescuing Overkill. But they were working, uh, somewhere in the same area code, basically, and Overkill had kinda sorta asked for his help, so….

“I’ll come help,” Dot said, abruptly, shooting him a look that said she didn’t know what was going on, but it wasn’t anything in the same time zone as rescuing Paloma from a broken down car.

“Don’t be too forward,” his mom said, bustling him toward the door, buttoning up his jacket for him. “Don’t go for a kiss, even if you think you earned it.”

“I won’t, mom.” In neither context--Paloma or Overkill--would he ever, ever do that.

“Make sure her feet are okay!” Walter yelled, from the table, his voice wafting to follow them out the door.

***

“So!” the Tick wiggled himself into the back seat of Dot’s blue sedan. “What’s the mission, chum?”

“Overkill. He needs our help.”

“Overkill?” Dot almost swerved off the road. “The guy with all the knives?”

“Not a damsel,” the Tick drooped, then perked up again. “But a hero always assists his allies, Arthur. An acceptable step on your hero’s journey!”

Dot frowned. “Hero’s--what is he talking about, Arthur?”

“Never mind him, Dot. We just need to get to the Natural History Museum.”

“The Natural History Museum?” Dot echoed. “That’s been closed for renovations for weeks!”

“Yeah, well, apparently Overkill’s found something there.”

“A clue to our noble quest, perhaps,” the Tick mused. “The trail to the future is often buried in the past, yes.”

“Arthur? What the hell is he talking about? And what are you doing?!”

“Getting changed,” Arthur squeaked, digging in the large Target bag he’d brought with him. “I’ll explain later. Please...just drive?”

She stared at him for a long moment, about fifty blamy things running around in her brain, before she let them all go. “All right, Arthur. For now. But if you get hurt, and I mean even a little bit…? Well,” she struggled, before coming up with, “I’m not going to be the one to explain it to mom.”

Ouch. Low blow, Dot!

“All right!” said the Tick, rubbing his hands together. “Our mighty chariot bears us to the fight, to noble, desperate combat, good, versus evil; right, versus wrong. Heroism, versus--”

“Shut up!” both Arthur and Dot yelled.

***

“It’s quiet,” the Tick said. “I believe this would even qualify as ‘too quiet’.”

Arthur had no idea what it took to cross the line from one to the other, but he had to agree. It was so quiet there weren’t even crickets chirping in the small botanical garden outside. The kind of nighttime quiet of a shut down place. Eerie.

“What now?” Dot boldly climbed the steps, peering into the darkness through the glass doors. “Where did your, uh, friend say he’d meet us?”

“He didn’t,” Arthur admitted. “I...probably should have asked.”

“Never fear, chum,” the Tick swaggered up the steps beside them. “All will be made manifest.”

“How do you do that, Tick?”

“Do what, friend?”

“How do you always sound so sure that everything’s going to work out?”

“Because it always does, Arthur. That’s how destiny works!”

That’s not how destiny or anything else worked in Arthur’s life. But it seemed the Tick brought destiny or something with him, because there was a loud crash of shattering glass, above them and then the rustling whump of a black-clad body, landing in the botanical hedge.

“Oh my god!” Dot yelled, and then like flipping a switch, turned from Sister Dot to Paramedic Dot, pulling a set of purple gloves out of her jacket pocket and kneeling over what was obviously Overkill.

Obviously a very pissed off Overkill.

A very pissed off Overkill suddenly engaged in a slap fight with Dot, as she tried to take off his mask. “I’m fine!” he yelled.

“You’re not fine!” Dot yelled back. “You are in no way, shape or form ‘fine’!”

Overkill grunted, struggling out of the bush, pushing her aside and into Arthur. “Took your time getting here,” he snarled. He tried to stand up. One leg buckled, and he tilted over, leaning on his good leg, trying to play it off.

“You haven’t even said why we’re here,” Arthur countered, riled. Overkill was, well, Overkill, but Dot was his sister. No one slapfighted with his sister. Except him.

Overkill rolled his shoulder, experimentally, and Arthur saw that he only had one of his long blades. “Followed a lead here. Thought it was nothing. Then, they attacked.” He jerked the chin of his mask at the building. “They’re protecting something.”

“A lead?” Arthur said. “To the Terror?”

“No, a lead to a great deal on linens.” Wow, Overkill did ‘sarcasm’ with about as much moderation as he did everything else. “Yes. The Terror.”

“I-I’m lost here,” Dot said. “Who is ‘they’?” She was sidling up to Overkill’s bad side, trying to peer at his injured leg.

“Them.” As if on cue, an unearthly screechy roar growl sound echoed from the building.

“That,” Arthur observed, “does not sound like the Pyramid Gang.”

“It isn’t.” Overkill took a step forward, or tried to, before his right leg gave out again and he unleashed a curse so horrific that Arthur’s helmet played a burst of Urmanian folk music in his ears, instead.

“That is IT!” Dot yelled, pouncing on Overkill as he sank to the ground, whipping a pair of trauma shears out of her--(did she seriously keep trauma shears in her handbag? In retrospect, Arthur carried a stolen Urmanian supersuit, so maybe he wasn’t one to criticize)--yeah, handbag--and start slicing at Overkill’s pant leg. “You’re going to let me do a trauma assessment, or else!”

Maybe it was the pain, or maybe Dot’s Bossy Paramedic Voice didn’t just work on Arthur. Whatever it was, Overkill sat, almost meekly, on the steps and let her cut.  
“

Wh-where’s your gun?” Arthur asked, because, yeah, he’d never actually seen Overkill use it, the assassin had always had it on him. Arthur just presumed it was for, like, last resort.

“FUCK!” Overkill’s hand darted to where the holster usually was, came up empty, and with a slap by Dot for getting in the way. “That’s it. Going back in there.” He tried to roll to his feet.

“Not until I at least stop the bleeding, you, you….death wish maniac weirdo!”

Overkill yelped in pain as she poked at his leg, but at least he settled down. For a minute. Probably trying, and failing, to refute the ‘death wish maniac weirdo’.

“What the hell did this?” Dot looked up at him.

“Them,” Overkill said, the scowl so thick you could hear it. “Bit me.”

“Bit you?” Dot’s voice cracked. “But this puncture is…”

“Yeah.”

Wow. This was a record for sentences Overkill said that involved neither threats or profanity. Things must be pretty serious.

Dot dug in her bag, again, coming up with a roll of gauze. “What?” she said, catching Arthur’s gaze. “I like to be prepared!”

“Arthur!” The Tick’s voice, from...above? Arthur craned his neck up, to see the Tick clinging to a balustrade that Overkill had jumped/been thrown/whatevered over. “Adventure lies this way!”

A hand, like iron, clamped on his arm. “If you go up there without me, I will--OW!” Overkill twitched, the hand tightening even harder on Arthur’s wrist. “Your sister’s mean!”

“I am not mean!” Dot said, tying the sleeve of Arthur’s old shirt in a tight knot around Overkill’s thigh. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding. As best you will let me.”

“See?” Overkill grunted. “It’s stopped. Let’s go.”

“Good idea,” Arthur said. “I’ll go clear out the back seat.”

“No, you jackass. Go back in.”

“Are you crazy?” Dot glowered at him.

He glowered back. Without answering. Which was probably an answer. And then, slowly, said, “We’re going back in.”

“You’re not going in there,” Dot argued.

“My gun’s in there.” As if that explained anything. Other than that this guy had a fetish for weapons. Which, well, Dot had already figured out.

“Uh.” The Tick’s head tilted, to the left, to the right. “Correction, chums. I believe that now, adventure is coming to us."  
Well, something was coming to them--Arthur could hear another of those chilling screeches from the building, and then a racing series of thumping crashes. And then, something so weird Arthur didn’t trust his own eyes or the suit’s goggles until it was too late. Until, in other words, a giant dinosaur mouth burst through the window above, snagged Arthur by one of the straps of his suit, and dragged him screaming inside.

A long, silent moment, as the other three stood outside in the darkness, listening to Arthur’s fading scream.

“Son of a BITCH!” Overkill said, finally, and for once, they all agreed.

***

“This is stupid, this is stupid,” Dot turned the sentence into a singsongy chant, like if she admitted it enough times, they’d be protected from the inevitable fallout of their stupidity. But one of the first rules of Emergency Medicine was that you didn’t go in until the scene was safe. Whatever was in the museum? It was not safe.  
Even less safe was the fact that she was with Overkill, who was hop-hobbling along on his wounded leg, using her as a crutch.

“That was a dinosaur, right?” Dot knew she was babbling, but really. It was a bit much to take.

“Yes.” He hissed in pain as they hopped up a small step. “They’re protecting something. And, they have my gun.”

“They have Arthur.” Hello? Priorities?

“That’s his problem,” Overkill said, scanning ahead.

Dot--barely--resisted the urge to punch him. She’d probably just hurt her hand on his weird skull face mask thing. “It’s your problem, because you’re the reason he’s here.”

A twitch in the cheek, that was all. Apparently that’s how Overkill tabled conversations. She had no idea how he and Arthur got along. Except that Arthur didn’t seem to get mad at anyone. Ever, really.

The Tick had strolled ahead of them, and they could periodically hear him call out “Arthur? Aaaarthur?” ahead of them.

“I hate that blue freak,” Overkill muttered, stopping at the threshold of a display of gems and minerals to gather strength. The exhibit was a maze of pedestals and glass cases holding rocks and crystals, lit dimly by emergency lighting, making it even darker than before.

“You didn’t have to ask him to help, then,” Dot said, tartly. “Or my brother, at all.” This whole thing was his fault, really. Arthur had a nice life, a normal life, free of dinosaurs, masked people with crazy eyes, people who identified as ‘henchmen’, until he ran into these two.

“We need to take the Terror out, for good,” Overkill snarled, his eyes glowing blue in the darkness. Because that wasn’t creepy. “And something’s coming.” He pulled her behind a pillar, and suddenly he was way too close to her, close enough that she could feel his body armor against her side, pushing against her as he breathed.

“What? What is it?” She tried to peek, but all she could see was darkness. “Can you see in the dark?”

“Yes,” he said, distracted. “When I say go, you run.”

“Run?” What the hell was he talking about? If Arthur was in there…“Get out.”

“I’m not leaving Arthur in here!”

The blue-glowing eyes dropped to hers, studied her face for a long moment. “Fine. Then stop complaining.”

She was NOT complaining. She was totally not complaining. She was, well, more like verbally freaking out. And, in a weird, twisted, backwards sort of way, maybe Overkill had been trying to protect her? That would...almost...be...nice of him? She opened her mouth to speak, but Overkill covered it quickly, with a glove that could really use a good wash. She could feel him tense, his gaze tracking...something. His other hand eased up over his shoulder, to wrap around the hilt of his other sword.

She could hear it, suddenly, a chuffing kind of breath and then the clinking of what she really hoped weren’t talons on the floor. And then, a low, menacing growl, that seemed to be right over her shoulder. She froze, staying as still as possible. Dinosaurs saw movement, right? She read that somewhere. Damn, there was probably a placard that could tell her that. Right now, she just hoped it was true, and that if she and Overkill stayed still enough, it’d move on.

Her face got jammed forward, the hand that had been covering her mouth now behind her head, giving her a faceful of body armor, as the glass case they’d been hiding next to exploded. She couldn’t help it: she screamed.

And then the thing was on them, and she felt claws grabbing, tearing through her coat, and the rank breath of something that smelled like a landfill had had sex with a skunk, and she was being dragged backwards, and there were grey-brown teeth and malevolent glowing eyes and oh god the thing was going to kill her--and then there was a loud BANG and the world went blinding white for a moment. Something was dragging her by her coat’s collar, and she was still screaming but she couldn’t hear herself. Her hands slapped, awkwardly, uselessly, over her head, until she registered that the thing on her collar wasn’t a monstrous claw, but a glove.

Overkill. Hauling her to the side, behind the now-shrieking beast, who was splattering something hot and wet and dark on her before going strangely, scarily...still. Dot scrabbled to her feet, shaking her head. “I can’t hear a thing!” she yelled, but couldn’t even hear herself say that.

He pointed, behind the dinosaur, back the way it had come, and slung his arm over her shoulder as they scrambled back.

This seemed like a terrible idea, to Dot. You don’t go back where the bad guy came from, unless you want to run into more bad guys. This hero thing was certifiable insanity.

Unless.

Unless, of course, the bad guys had a hostage, and you had to go rescue him.

***

Arthur groaned, starting to come to. The last thing he remembered, there was a big, terrifying, carnivorous mouth, and then his legs swinging helplessly in the air, and then him screaming and now...this. He must have passed out. From screaming.

He was the worst superhero ever.

He wasn’t even a very good Arthur, right now, but he could try to fix that. Step one: make sure you’re okay. He patted his face, his head, with gloved hands. So far, so good. Face good. Hands good. Torso, good. Feet?

Oh god. He was turning into Walter. But his feet...were good.

Step two….yeah, he got nothing. What would the Tick do?

Wait. That was a terrible thought. The Tick was his friend, but, well, not exactly a great role model, especially for anyone who was so far from ‘nigh invulnerable’ that he couldn’t even spell it.

Well, okay, what would Arthur do when he wasn’t freaking out? Maybe figure out where he was? That sounded reasonable. And doable.

He sat up, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the dark. Okay, he was in a...blobby space. No, a space that had large, knee-high sized round things in it. A ball pit? He didn’t remember the Natural History Museum having a ball pit.

What it did have was...a diorama of a dinosaur nest.

Oh.

Oh no. Because if the dinosaurs were real…

Arthur slithered over to one of the eggs, pressing his ear against it. Yeah, there was definitely something going on there--it was warm, and he could swear he heard something like a heartbeat.

Which would make him...breakfast.

Arthur slumped back down again, feeling a bit dizzy. He wasn’t ready to be breakfast. He wasn’t ready for any of this.

***

The Tick had had no luck, zero, in fact, in locating Arthur. What he’d managed to do, though, was follow a trail that had Overkill written all over it, in the antihero’s large, red penmanship. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, he thought, leading to the throbbing heart of evil. Just...in reverse.

He picked them up, this trail of clues, covered in greenish blood, and very, very sharp, following the trail back into a gallery with “Hall of the Dinosaurs” written on it.

“Now,” he said, pausing to admire the fancy font, and dropping the pile of Overkill’s weapons he’d collected, “we’re getting somewhere.” Then again, they were always getting somewhere. Unless they were standing still. “ARTHUR!” he belted. “This is your Cave of Destiny!” He knew this step well: that darkness of the soul, where the hero had to emerge, like a butterfly from a chrysalis of danger.

***

“Goddammit,” Overkill stopped, leaning hard against a wall. “That fucking blue idiot.”

For once, Dot wasn’t inclined to argue. Because she saw what Overkill saw, this time--a bunch of heads of what had been sleeping raptor style dinosaurs pop up, awake and alert. They had managed to escape the creature, staggering up a flight of stairs, and were now in a second-level gallery, overlooking the two story Hall of Dinosaurs.

And a squeak, unmistakeable, that could only be Arthur. Dot pointed, eagerly. “Is that him? Is that Arthur?” she whispered. There was a darker spot in the darkness, where, if she remembered correctly, there was a grey wiggly thing in the diorama of a dinosaur nest.  
Nest? Oh, that...would not be good.

“Fuck,” Overkill said. Which she took as a ‘yes’. “Looks like he’s on the menu.”

“I don’t see the Terror,” Dot said, peering around nervously. “Or any of his--” What was the right word here? She refused to say ‘henchmen’. ‘Goons’ didn’t seem much better. “--people.”

“They wouldn’t need to be. Those things can take care of any intruders just fine.”

He had a point, and, well, he had a lot more experience in the villain business.  
“So what do we do?” she said, and then paused, because did she just say ‘we’ to Overkill?

He seemed to have the same thought, staring at her for a second, before going back to scan the main diorama. “Maybe we can use that idiot. Distraction. Then we go get Arthur.”

That seemed kind of harsh, but, well, also likely to happen as the dinosaurs uncoiled themselves, almost as a body, and rushed toward the gallery’s far end, roaring and licking their tongues over their filthy teeth, talons clattering on the tile floor.

“I don’t get it,” she said, following Overkill as he edged along the gallery’s perimeter. “How can they work on the museum with these things running loose? I mean, someone would have heard them, at least?” She was a paramedic. She kept her radio on all the time: she would have heard something. Seen an injury like Overkill had, at some point.

“We figure that out, we figure out part of the Terror’s plan,” Overkill whispered back. “Maybe Arthur will have a clue.”

She didn’t think Arthur would have anything other than an anxiety attack, but Overkill wasn’t in the mood to argue. He was scanning the opposite gallery, waiting, as the dinosaur things rushed toward the Tick. She felt a shiver of worry. Sure, the Tick was weird, and she wasn’t really happy with all the change he’d brought into Arthur’s life, but he wasn’t, you know, a bad guy. And he was a lot less unlikeable than Overkill. And Overkill had just basically saved her life, with that flashbang grenade thing he used back there.

Life with superheroes got complicated.

She heard the unmistakeable sound of the Tick laughing, and then some solid, meaty thwacks, and dinosaur bodies going flying. Which was apparently good cover for the grapple hook gun thing Overkill shot across the balcony.

He paused, his uncanny eyes turning to her, waiting, holding out his other arm in a gesture like invitation. “You coming or not?”

***

It wasn’t every day your sister dropped out of the sky and onto you while you were trying to scramble out of a nest of dinosaur eggs. In fact, if Arthur had any say, it not only wouldn’t be every day, it wouldn’t be *any* day. But, this was his life, now.

He gave a shush gesture, pointing at the eggs.

“What?” Overkill, of course.

Arthur winced, whispering. “They’re about to hatch!”

Overkill drew his sword. “I can take care of that.”

“NO!” Dot and Arthur yelled, trying to grab the handle. “They’re just babies!” Dot hissed.

“Don’t think you’d like them that much if the babies chowed down on your brother,” Overkill said. Well. Pouted, really. But he did sheath the blade. Unhappily.

“I appreciate it, Overkill. Really, I do,” Arthur said. “It’s just...we should probably help the Tick. Maybe get out of here?”

“We haven’t found what the Terror is hiding here,” Overkill countered.

“I think it’s...them,” Arthur said, pointing at the dinosaurs.

Overkill grunted, pacing limpingly around the edge of the nest, to run his gloved hands over the wall behind. “Fucking nothing here,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Arthur said. “I know. And there’s something weird about these dinosaurs.”

“You mean, other than them being fucking dinosaurs. In 2017.”

Dot glowered at Overkill. He gave a ‘what?’ shrug. She turned back to Arthur. “Yeah, like why they haven’t destroyed the city before now?”

“Exactly,” Arthur said. “There’s a reason they’re not attacking people in broad daylight--maybe that’s it!” he said, excitedly.

“What?” One of the eggs started to wiggle, as if catching Arthur’s enthusiasm. Dot tried to still it with her hands.

“I have an idea,” Arthur answered.

“It better be a good one,” Overkill interrupted, and there he was, drawing his blade again, gimping to the side of the nest nearer the gallery entrance. “Your friend’s losing.”

***

The Tick did not lose. He suffered temporary and dramatic setbacks, but only to set up for a stunning recovery. Which was coming, as soon as he got the dinosaur off his back. Which wasn’t a metaphor. Metaphors were more powerful, but this one had sharper claws. And teeth that were gnawing at his head.

“Uncool!” he yelled, ducking forward, flinging the dinosaur over his shoulders, tumbling it into the crowd of, uh, other dinosaurs in front of him. “Bowling for justice!”

Except, normally, when one bowled, the pins didn’t get back up and attack you. Then again, the Tick hadn’t been bowling in a while (ever?) and maybe the rules had changed. All he knew is there was suddenly a tsunami of teeth and stinky breath descending on him.

“Friends!” he said. “Might I suggest a tactical relocation!” He didn’t want to rush Arthur through his transformative dark cave of solitude experience, and he most definitely wasn’t losing, but, well, it was getting lonely. He needed sidekicks. And allies.

***

Arthur raced toward the Tick, as fast as he could, fast enough that he was outrunning anything like conscious thought, like...how bad an idea it was to run toward danger. He was also trying to outrun Dot, who was like his common sense and conscience, but with more guilt.

Outrunning an injured Overkill, however, was easy. Which was why the assassin wasn’t running, but kneeling to deploy his grapple hook again.

And Arthur had to admit that Overkill was way better cut out for this whole rescue thing than he was--Overkill was absolutely the guy to swing, on the long line of his grapple hook gun, drawing his one remaining blade and executing a kind of epic landing on one of the larger dino-creatures, blade thunking into the dinosaur’s face.  
Overkill rolled off that body, as it collapsed to the floor, and he was already on another one, slashing at its legs, only slightly slowed down by his injured leg.

“Oh my GOD!” Dot caught up to Arthur, grabbing him by the arm. He was going to counter that she had seen Overkill in action before, but, well, honestly, she was probably like him at the time: too busy dodging bullets behind a car to really pay attention. “Well,” she said, after a moment, “I can see why they call him Overkill.”

Arthur nodded. And now that Overkill was, well, overkilling, he and Dot really didn’t need to dive into the action--they’d probably just get in the way. “Let’s go check on the Tick.”

“Arthur! And Dot!” The Tick’s voice gave no hint that he was currently punching a dinosaur. Which sounded like it should be some off-color euphemism, but it wasn’t. “You’re safe!”

“We need to get out of here,” Arthur said. “You and Overkill can’t hold them off for long. And, they’re about to get reinforcements!” Because all the noise or time had spurred a bunch of the eggs to hatch, and a swarm of dog-sized baby dinosaurs, still wet and with bits of shell stuck to them, were racing their way.

“In theory--,” the Tick began, but then his head disappeared in a dinosaur’s mouth. A brief pause as he punched at the creature’s jaw until it released him. “Perhaps you’re right, chum,” he said, wiping dinosaur saliva off his face. “If for nothing else to stop your stabby friend from his murder-palooza.”

“They.” Overkill spun on his good leg, slashing his blade at the leg of a creature. “Are.” He ducked under a swinging claw. “Fucking.” Another dinosaur lunged at him, throwing him onto his back: he got his legs in the dinosaur’s belly, and launched it upwards. “Dinosaurs.” The launched dinosaur landed on another, that had been about to take a swipe at Arthur’s head. They went down in a squealing flail of limbs, as Overkill started limping toward them, wiping his blade. “Fine. You wanna run? Let’s run.”

Arthur nodded, and he and the Tick and Dot made for the gallery door, bolting back to the safety of Dot’s car.

Overkill moved to follow, stumbled on his hurt leg, and cursed, landing hard on his hands. Of course.

***

The Tick didn’t even slow down his run to burst through the museum’s front doors--just thrust his chest out and rammed right through it--glass sprayed outward, catching glitters in the dim streetlight light. Arthur and Dot came to a stop, though, because all that glass might be fine if you’re nigh-invulnerable, but Dot and Arthur weren’t.

Arthur was, in fact, highly vulnerable.

They ducked their way under and over the jagged glass that still stuck on the metal frame edges of the door, just in time to hear Tick yell, “HEY, Mr Stabby!” and hear the crunch of more glass shattering.

“What the hell are you doing?!” And how the hell did he get there before them? And how the hell did he get all his weapons back?! So. Many. Questions.

Dot dashed down the steps toward her car, where Overkill had just used the hilt of his sword to break the driver’s side window of Dot’s car.

Overkill shrugged, like it should be obvious. “Getaway vehicle.”

“MY getaway vehicle,” she retorted, rounding the car, and punching him squarely in the chest. “And I have the keys!”

He snatched the keys out of her hand. “Not. Anymore.” He turned to the others, announcing, “I’m driving.”

“It’s Dot’s car,” Arthur argued. Tick just folded his blue arms over his chest and made a series of loud ‘tsks’.

“Seriously?” Overkill groaned, handing the keys back to Dot. “But you’ll regret it.”

“Is that some woman driver thing?” Dot stepped up, almost chest to chest with him.

“No,” he said. “It’s a tactical driving skill thing.”

“Overkill?” Dot nudged him aside, sliding into her own driver’s seat. “I drive an ambulance. Through the city. At rush hour.” She could handle herself.

Overkill moved toward the passenger seat, but Arthur dove in. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he sighed, and settled, disgruntledly, into the rear passenger seat, next to the Tick.

“Dot!” Arthur pointed, urgently, at the shattered museum door they had come through. From which, now, a crowd of dinosaurs--mouths, claws and all, big and little--were pouring. “It’s time to go!”

Dot floored it, tires screeching on the road.

They had made it maybe twenty feet before Overkill yelled, “Stop, goddammit.” Well, he was feeling better, apparently, judging by the rate at which he was sprinkling profanities.

Dot slammed on the brakes. “Overkill, I haven’t even started driving yet. I don’t need your backseat driver bullshit!”

“I haven’t even started on that,” retorted Overkill. “We got a bigger problem.” She could see him in the rearview, pointing behind the car.

She looked. They all looked.

Dinosaurs were scattering, pouring out onto the street, heading for the crossroads, heading for…”Downtown,” Arthur said, glumly. “We have to stop them.”

“We can’t stop them out here,” Overkill said. “Too much maneuvering room for them.”

“So what do we do?” Some of the sharpness left Dot’s voice--maybe Overkill had an idea.

“We lure them,” Arthur said. “Like the Pied Piper story!”

“And how the hell you intend to do that?” Overkill was fumbling in the back seat, trying to get his swords free, and elbowing the Tick in the face while he did so. Which, well, Overkill didn’t seem that sorry about. “Goddammit, what the shit is this?!” He snatched up a bluetooth speaker that had snagged around his wrist.

“That’s it!” Arthur said. “We can lure them with music.”

Dot shoved her purse at him. “Quick, find my phone!”

“We’d best use haste, chums,” the Tick said, dodging Overkill’s flailing elbows faultlessly. “Lest our bestial enemies escape!”

Arthur pawed in her bag: the shears he’d already seen, but also about three pairs of purple gloves, a pulse oximeter, a plastic baggie filled with alcohol swabs and blood glucose test strips, and then three different lipsticks, two little bottles of hand sanitizer, kleenex, a capless pen, a souvenir change purse from Boston, a skate key…. “I can’t find it!”

“We’re running out of time!” Dot said. “They’re getting away!”

“GodFUCKINGdammit.” Overkill. Obviously. And he thumbed some button or switch or whatever on his helmet. “Dangerboat. Come in.”

“Dangerboat?” Dot mouthed to Arthur. “Who’s he talking to?”

“His boat!” the Tick supplied. “Or the boat he lives with, at least.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Dot side-eyed Arthur, who shrugged. It was just too much to explain right now, and Overkill was talking to Dangerboat:

“Yeah. You got the speaker?” The speaker in his lap crackled to life. “Good. No. I don’t know what the fuck goddam dinosaurs like to listen to. Yes, I”m older than you. So are most goddam schookids. Shut the fuck up. Just play something!”

“True love,” Dot muttered, just as the speaker began playing music, at full volume. Overkill pushed it up, through her car’s sunroof, pointing back at the dinosaur crowd.

“Hello, dinosaurs,” came a soothing voice. “If you would please all come this way.”

The Tick nodded approvingly. “You see? Manners. Manners make the man.”

“Boat,” the voice corrected. I’m not a man.”

“Boat. Right.”

“Goddammit, Dangerboat. We’re not going to kill them with fucking kindness!”

Arthur hated to admit it, but Overkill had a point. After a few curious faces peered over at the car, sniffing the air, they turned back, starting to meander down the main boulevard to downtown. “I-it’s not working,” he said, nervously.

“Dangerboat!” Overkill yelled. “Play. Something. Else.”

A miffed sounding ‘harrumph’--wait, Dot thought--did robot boats get miffed?--and then she heard the unmistakable opening bars of--

“Dangerboat!” Overkill bellowed, getting drowned out by a guitar chord--

\--yes, it was definitely Scandal. How many times had Dot heard the song on the roller derby oval?--

“Your Spotify playlist,” Dangerboat replied, over the music, yet still somehow sounding placid--

“ _Shooting at the walls of heartache-bang-bang_!” went the speakers--

Up went the dinosaur heads--first a few, then more, then more, beginning to pad over toward the car. “It’s working!” Arthur said.

“It’s working!” Dot echoed, excitedly, and then panic set in. It was working, and several dozen vicious prehistoric predators were heading her way. Right! She floored the gas, the car leaping forward, and she swung onto a side road out of the city. “They’re still following, right?” She was busy concentrating on the road, only having a few seconds to glance in her rearview. “Hold it up higher!”

“That sounds like a job for...me!” the Tick took the speaker from Overkill’s hand, and twisted, half-standing in the back seat, holding it over his head out the sunroof. Which put his crotch, basically, at Overkill’s eye level. “Gah!” Overkill curled up in a ball on the seat, his eyes scrinched shut. “I hate all of you.”

“ _I don’t wanna tame your animal style_!” blared the speaker.

“Guys!” Dot, from the driver’s seat. “Can we maybe get a plan together? Where am I going?”

“Anywhere,” Arthur said. “Away from people!”

“A good plan!” The Tick said, from through the sunroof.

“A shit plan,” Overkill muttered, from his ball of denial. “More like a gesture to a plan.”

“Uh, I hate to do this,” Dot said, “But I’m going to have to agree with Overkill. Even if we could, somehow, drive forever without running into another town--wait. No. That’s pretty much my objection.”

Overkill gave an aggrieved groan. At least it sounded like the aggrieved kind, and hopefully not the ‘in pain’ kind. “Dangerboat.”

“Yes, roomie,” came the pleasant voice, through the speaker.

“Don’t call me that. In public.”

“I’m sorry, Overkill. Did that imply that you had friends?”

“Shut up. Look, we got a situation here. We need to find, I don’t fucking know, a box canyon or convenient cliff or some shit to get rid of these things.”

“So, now we’re stealing our tactical plans from Warner Brothe--oh! Here’s an idea.”

“What?” Overkill, and Dot, and Arthur, all at once.

“About ten miles from your location, there’s a bitumen lake.”

“Dangerboat, what the hell. We’re not sightseeing. We don’t need a scenic route.”

“A bitumen lake. Also known as a tar pit.”

“I get it!” Arthur said. “We get them stuck in the tar pit.”

“They’d still be...alive,” Overkill said, sourly. As though that was a serious flaw in the plan.

“But they’d be trapped,” Dot said. “And then we could maybe get some, I don’t know. Zookeepers. Or scientists. Or someone, to help.” She was definitely warming up to the idea.

“We don’t NEED help,” Overkill sat forward, one hand gripping her head rest. “We can kill all of them ourselves.”

“What is with you and murder?” The Tick clucked, disapprovingly.

“What is wrong with all of you!?” Overkill slumped back against the back seat, scowling out the passenger window, as though he were the only sane one in a car full of crazies.

Dot was going to retort, but Arthur put a hand on her wrist and shook his head. Arthur was probably right: it was pointless. “Uh. Boat? Overkill’s friend?” she raised her voice so the speaker could hear.

“Dangerboat,” the voice came. “And I am currently reevaluating my friend status with Overkill.”

“Uh. Okay?” That seemed like classic Too Much Information. And the growl from the back didn’t help. “Can you give me directions to the tar pit lake thing?”

***

It took them a couple of hours to do it--dinosaurs could run fast, but not for long, so they ended up doing it in short bursts, inchworming their way down the highway, and then the narrow county road, then the rutted old logging road. One last burst of speed had gotten them around the road that bordered the lake, far enough ahead of the dinocreatures that they plunged straight into the tar pit, howling at the music still blaring from the speaker--by that time, Pat Benatar’s “Shadows of the Night”. Whatever issues she might have with Overkill, she had to admit he had awesome taste in ladies of the 80s.

It took nearly till sunrise and involved all of them piling out of the car and yelling and making themselves look like tasty dinosaur bait to snag the last of them in the sticky glop. They were howling and flailing their tiny little arms and it was all really making Dot start to feel sorry for them because they looked so helpless, and confused, and pathetic. Especially the babies, who squawked like hungry birds.

No, she told herself. If it wasn’t this, it was someone like Overkill trying to turn them into dino-jerky. They’d get some help, somehow. And even if they were part of the Terror’s latest nefarious plan, they could fix that too. Somehow. It wasn’t their fault. They were just acting like, well, dinosaurs. They weren’t like the creepy henchmen Dot remembered.

The four gathered together at Dot’s car, exhausted as the last bars of music faded, and she tried to convince herself that those teethmarks would totally buff out. Even the Tick looked a little, well, less sprightly than usual, his antennae drooping around his head like floppy dog ears. “If this is what superheroing is like,” Dot said, out of breath, “I’m definitely not cut out for it.” It felt crazy, too, more than a little--she wondered how Arthur was keeping it together better than she was.

But he was. In fact, he was peering over the pit of stuck dinosaurs. “Hey, guys? I think I solved our mystery.”

The Tick’s antennae undrooped a bit. “Oh?”

“Look!” Arthur pointed over the pit. “They’re changing.”

“Dying?” Overkill asked, hopefully.

“No, but he’s right. They’re changing.” Even Dot, with her normal vision, could see it. “They’re...turning into stone?”

They were. They moved slower and slower, and then their skin took on a waxy grey color, and they froze into position looking for all the world like dinosaurs in a diorama.  
“Fuck me with a handgrenade,” Overkill said, elbowing off the car. And ignoring the look the Tick gave him. “So they were basically right in front of everyone the whole time.”

“And that’s why there weren’t any attacks during the day, either,” Dot said.

“Truly diabolical,” The Tick weighed in. “A weapon in the Terror’s arsenal, just waiting to be unleashed on the city. Until we stepped in.”

“I stepped in,” Overkill insisted.

“WE,” Dot corrected. “It took all of us, Overkill. Even your boat chipped in.”

“You’re welcome,” Dangerboat chirped from the speaker. “I like her, Overkill. You should invite her back. For dinner.”

“Overkill’s boat friend is trying to fix him up on a date,” the Tick observed, to the world at large.

Overkill peeled off his mask, scrubbing a hand over his sweat-damp hair. “Overkill’s boat can go fuck itself,” he scowled, glaring right at Dot, trying to stare her down. He was...actually kind of cute, she thought, and then wanted to slap herself for even thinking like that. Even his voice, without the helmet’s vocal modulator, sounded, uh, hot.

No. That had to be some post-adrenaline thing. He was a jerk. A jerk who had, actually, if she was honest, helped her get Arthur back without much more than a scratch. And had rescued her in the museum, at least once. Uh…..

Somehow, now, this got awkward?

“We did miss dinner,” the Tick said, oblivious. “And we did come to your rescue.”

“And, I do need your helmet’s camera footage for the message I’m going to send to the university scientists,” Dangerboat pointed out, blandly.

“Seriously?” Overkill looked from one, to the other.

“You can stop for bagels on the way,” Dangerboat suggested, too helpfully. “And I’ll fire up the Keurig.”

“Goddammit,” Overkill dropped back against the car’s rear quarterpanel again. “This is what I goddam get for asking for help.”

 


End file.
